I remember one morning I was to speak to the chapel
at Baylor University. I was afraid that morning, so I began to pray. "Lord,
give me a verse of comfort to free me from my fears."

You have never spoken to me in an audible voice, Lord,
but I do hear You in Scripture. You spoke to me that morning, clearly. You
answered, "Sanctify the Lord of hosts himself; and let him be your fear..."
(Isaiah 8:13).

I thought You hadn't answered me. "But Lord, I asked
You to take away my fears, and You've given me a new one. How about another
verse?"

I was wrong, of course. When I properly establish
the priorities of fear, strive only to please You, I am then released
from the panic of punishment and disciplined by the productivity of Your
direction. Thank You, Lord.

I pray in the name of the Lord, Jesus
Christ.

Amen.

The other day I called one of the most productive
Christians I know. "How are you?" I asked, thinking it was a somewhat needless
question. She was always fine, and had nineteen Scripture verses to prove
it!

I didn't get her usual answer, though. Instead I got
a

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long pause, and then words all capsulated in one
breath.

"Oh, Jeannette, I'm awful! I've been so depressed
I don't know what to do. I've had to quit teaching my Bible classes. I'm
not doing anything. I don't go out, I don't see anybody. It's all I can do
just to get up in the morning, and some days I can't even do that. I'm so
ashamed of myself I don't think I can stand it!"

This was no erratic spiritual novice; this was a mighty
Christian soldier! I had seen her in action and praised God for her accuracy
as she taught or counseled. My heart hurt for her. This dear friend was not
only down in the depths, but ashamed of herself for being there.

I became very clinical. "Are you eating a lot of sugar?
Are you overtired? Are you taking sulfa drugs?" She seemed taken aback by
my questions, but I have learned there are many different reasons for depression,
and some of them are physical.

Then I asked my friend about the condition of her
prayer life  was she aware of hidden resentment? of disobedience?
There was nothing that surfaced before my considerably less-then-professional
eye, and I decided to doff my counselor's cap for the more likely bonnet
of a friend.

How we love to grip the believer's spiritual pulse
with our untrained fingers and rattle off our diagnosis. Then, as patients,
we frequently offer far more curiosity as to what the disease is than in
how to cure it. That's why some books have become best sellers  they
tell people the names of their ailments. If naming it is curing it, there
would be no need for drugstores!

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I wonder if all the justified popularity of lay counseling
has endangered some of the basics of our spontaneous feelings for one another.
We don't talk anymore, we "Communicate." We never tell somebody
something, we "Share." We react from our study manuals instead of from our
hearts. Sometimes we become so sure of the text on relationship that we've
missed the context of honest contact.

God forgive me the times I've cheated my friends,
trying to satisfy some imagined assignment rather than be myself! That's
a trap satanically laid for a lot of public speakers. We are so used to handing
out services we forget to be fellow servants. I hate to think of the
times I have doled out advice and dispassionate counsel when what was asked
of me was love and prayers!

Fortunately, my house has a smoothly running thermostat
designed to correct such false temperature readings. It is called a husband.
Someone asked me how I managed to survive the sudden popularity that followed
The Hiding Place, and I answered without hesitation:
"Lorraine."

Even with his masterful understanding, it is often
very difficult. After having listened attentively to the needs of disturbed
strangers, I am prone to counsel my own husband, who neither needs nor
appreciates it!

I thought of this as I sympathized with my depressed
friend on the telephone. She had not inadvertently gotten her line crossed
with "Dial-an-analyst," she was admitting a painful condition to a friend.
I think the most helpful thing I offered her was that I

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was not shocked. Surprised a little, but not shocked.

Any Christian who is truly shocked by another Christian's
depression has not dealt honestly with the possibility of her own. I was
no more shocked than I am when I learn that a friend has hay fever. Depression
is a lot like hay fever almost everyone has it, but no one knows what to
do about it.

After sharing tears with my friend, I did offer two
quick dispensings of advice. I am not a professional counselor and do not
hesitate to recommend one when I think it is needed, but I feel two principles
offer successful first aid to depression-suffering Christians. They may even
be the cardinal rules for survival.

Principle one: Depression is temporary! If you are
subject to attacks of depression, tape a sign to your closet door, or embroider
it onto the pillow into which you cry. It is temporary
 do not make any long-term decisions under the influence
of a short-term condition!

The well-quoted lady who always bought a new dress
whenever she was depressed must have a closet full of hideous clothes, all
reminding her of her depression! Depression is indeed real. It is tragic.
It is paralyzing, it is contagious, it is every horrible thing you may imagine
it to be, but it is temporary! The devil would have you believe that depression
is permanent, eternal, unique, and that there is no way out from under it.
Those are all lies! Refute them between your tears, if you must  but
refute them.

Principle two: Depression is redeemable. God never
wastes anything. He is the Glorious Scavenger!

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If released to Him, every tear, every sob, every shudder of shaking
shoulders can be productive!

I knew my friend's tears beyond God's attention. God
knows the worth of our weepings. Think about that the next time you're crying.
God knows just how many tears come from a broken and contrite heart (and
how many do not!) The fact of God's unfaltering economy of suffering has
done me more good that waterproof mascara.

After talking to my friend, I found myself thinking
a lot about depression, especially in the life of the believer, who may have
thought it disproved the belief. The believer in Christ has a means of dealing
with depression victoriously, but he certainly is not immune to
it.

The trickiest point for the depressed Christian is
that someone with a handsome face but a demonic accent told him to say nothing
about it and it would go away. The Christian is never depressed, no sir!
The Christian is a happy fellow. See how he smiles. See how he prays for
those less fortunate ones who know downs instead of ups. See him give his
testimony. See him cut his throat!

If you are not a Christian, or are a very new one,
you may be put off by my friendly reference to depression. Even if it is
bad psychology to introduce a discouraging word here on the fringe of your
birthday party, believe me, the principles of overcoming frustration, guilt,
and disappointment will do you far more good than all the left-over paper
hats.

On the other hand, if you are a Christian with
time

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accredited to your record, you may be delighted by this chapter.
It may even be that you have just tripped in your joyous running and are
now lying face down in the mire of unfulfilled commitments to righteousness.
You may have seen all the saints passing you by without giving you a second
glance and wondered why none of those loving brethren saw fit to warn you
of the true conditions of the track!

At this point, you may have convinced yourself that
you really don't want to run anyway, and that the roadside gutter is a lot
like a fiftieth birthday  once you get over the shock of it, it's really
not so bad.

Well, friend, there's good news and bad news. The
bad news is that God has no intention of allowing you to adjust to the gutter,
no matter how rough it is getting back in the running. The good news is that
God had already done the hard part and provided you with principles to get
you going again. Those principles were carried out by noble characters who
faltered long before you.

If the tour guide points out all the homes of the
track stars, you'll find three of special interest. They are not exactly
homes  they're tents. Each one is different, but all three are
definitely off the track.

One is a little smaller than the others, and has certain
touches here and there of femininity. The usual basic tent flap is adorned
by fading embroidered curtains, the tent itself is pink, with matching poles.
It is a lady's tent. A lovely lady named Hannah, whose feet longed to dance
even though they were hobbled by clogs designed only for walking. Hannah
stumbled in frustration.

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The middle tent is quite ornate. It is made of purple
velvet, appropriately weatherproofed, adorned with the woven gold insignia
of a king a very great king. David, the king of Israel, whose marching feet
found the deadly detour of guilt.

The far one under the juniper tree is made of coarse
heavy material that looks like sackcloth, the rough cloth of a prophet. It
belongs to Elijah, whose leaping path is marked by prints slimy with
disappointment. Things were not all that he expected them to be!

There is one thing common to all the off-the-track,
out-of-the-race lodgings: They are all empty. Quite empty. No one is in them,
because God gave each of the owners principles to get them to run, even with
feet of depression's clay.